


little girl queen

by nise_kazura



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bratty Will, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, Extreme Age Gap, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, Female Hannibal Lecter, Female Will Graham, Genderbend, Lima Syndrome, Loli, Monsterfucking, Pedophilia, Red Wings, Sex Demon, Succubus, Tentacle Sex, Tentaclits, lovesick Hannibal, well...sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 19:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21325813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nise_kazura/pseuds/nise_kazura
Summary: “The little girl doesn’t want to go back home to her mama and papa, does she. She went in knowing this would happen. She was always treated like a princess, but—” Will pauses. Licks her lips. “But what she really wanted was to be queen.”“Perhaps,” says Hannibal. “Or perhaps the faerie’s enchantment took before she even knew what was happening.”“Faeries are very mischievous and clever,” says Will, “but so are little girls.”
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 5
Kudos: 106





	little girl queen

**Author's Note:**

> a) i dont know what im doing   
b) Will and Hannibal are just gonna go by Will and Hannibal, because I hate coming up with names for genderbends lol  
c) I never explicitly mention Will's age in this fic, but she's written as a child. You can place her anywhere you want, but just be aware of that. She's very young.   
d) i tried to be thorough but if you feel like i've missed any tags, please, PLEASE let me know

“Are you here to take him away?”

Hannibal looks up from where she’s leaning over the shell of a man, now aged years past his prime. She’d been feeding off of him for weeks now.

She looks at the little girl staring up at her. She doesn’t seem scared or confused to see Hannibal, though Hannibal knows how she must look right now, her demonic energy leaking through the seams of her person suit—her eyes glowing in the dark, burnished gold, her skin radiating red-hot heat and crackling like hot coals, fueled by hellfire.

This is a surprise. Usually the ones she chooses don’t have spouses or young children, and if she had to guess, she wouldn’t have suspected Stratton Graham to have been any different. He spent many nights with her, and didn’t seem to care much about when he got home, if he came home at all. No ring on his finger, his entire demeanor and hygiene habits pointing towards bachelor. If he had children, she certainly wouldn’t have suspected he would have one so young. 

Hannibal licks her lips. This is a loose end she hadn’t anticipated. Exorcisms are rare nowadays, but not unheard of, particularly in these parts. If the child tells the wrong person… She should have been more careful.

“He’s dead, isn’t he.”

Stratton Graham is indeed dead. He died happily, though, and in the throes of pleasure, right before Hannibal sucked all the life energy out of him, leaving him an old, desiccated husk. There honestly had not been much left in him, before Hannibal had gotten to him.

His daughter, though.

She’s young. Much younger than Hannibal has had in a long, long time.

But Hannibal can taste her, in the air. She can sense the suffusion of energy from inside the girl, bursting forth between them. It isn’t…dormant, the way children’s are supposed to be. Or, well, the way they say children’s are supposed to be.

Even demons have concepts of purity, nowadays.

She kneels down in front of the girl, and the girl does not step back or flinch from Hannibal’s stare. She simply fists her little hands in the dirty old t-shirt she wears like a dress, tilts her chin up, and levels her own stare back, steady and solemn.

“What is your name, little one?”

The little girl flicks her eyes towards her father’s corpse, then back to Hannibal.

“Will.”

Will.

“What were you doing in your room just now, Will? Little girls like you are supposed to be asleep.”

Will rubs her thighs together, squirming.

Even children have concepts of sex. Enough to know that it is dirty and bad, anyway.

They don’t know that it’s because of creatures like Hannibal that little boys and girls are taught to protect themselves. That long before sex became embedded in society as a universally broken taboo, people whispered about demons that come to steal your vitality through the sweetest torture you’ll ever know. That Hannibal’s kind used to feed abundantly, before the humans wisened up and tried to choke off their source with shame, until people forgot the real reasons why they began to fear their own bodies, built stories and constructed moral codes and customs, entire social structures around the concept that pleasure is evil.

They don’t know that Hannibal’s kind still thrives in the underbelly of their institutions, simply more quietly. More insidious, more discrete.

Pleasure is not evil. Hannibal, though.

This little girl is a precocious one. She knows pleasure, she simply has not been taught the ropes yet.

Hannibal could do that for her. If she wanted to. She could teach, she could feed...she could tie off this loose end.

“Come with me,” Hannibal says, stretching out her hand.

“Will you kill me?”

Hannibal thinks about it for a moment.

“Perhaps,” she says.

Will doesn’t seem to react one way or another at this response. She simply takes Hannibal’s hand, wraps her fingers around Hannibal’s.

“I have nowhere left to go,” she offers, as though she needs to explain it, as though she needs to say it out loud to remind herself of it.

“Do not worry. I will take good care of you, little one.”

Hannibal takes her in her arms, lifting her up easily, and then together they disappear into the shadows of the night.

* * *

Hannibal stares at the small child sitting in front of her. Will sits, slightly slouched, swinging her feet anxiously back and forth. She’s been freshly washed, changed into a new nightgown of her size.

Not that she’ll remain this size, if Hannibal’s plans play out. With this, she won’t need to go hunting for awhile, possibly.

They stare each other down across the table. Will is remarkably quiet. Though she fidgets and kicks her feet, she remains silent. Sullen, almost. Not a well-liked child, but one that at least knows not to make trouble.

It takes another minute or so of intense silence for Hannibal to realize that they are engaged in an impromptu “staring contest”. She notices because Will’s eyes have begun to water and strain, and she squints at Hannibal, eyes struggling not to close. It is the most expressive Will has been thus far.

After another fifteen seconds, Hannibal takes pity on her and blinks first. When she does, Will smiles, just briefly. A brief lightening of the face, a lifting of the features, and for the first time since meeting her, Hannibal can peek in on the joyful exuberance that children her age are said to have. But it’s just a flash, a moment of blindness. Before the smile can spread across her face, fully, Will quickly schools her expression into one of indifference, though her hands clench on her thighs, a sign of her suppressed excitement. When she notices Hannibal watching even that, she shoves her hands under her thighs.

What a strange child.

“My name is Hannibal.”

Will mouths the name silently to herself, before repeating it out loud.

“Ha-nni-bal,” she sounds out. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.”

“And it is very nice to meet you, too, Will.”

* * *

Hannibal walks behind Will, keeping her within sight. Will is unabashedly curious, looking around at the austere decor, the tall shapes and dark colors and decadent patterns and brocade. She seems to know where she’s going without Hannibal needing to tell her, simply glancing back at Hannibal at every hallway and turn, before leading them finally to the bedroom.

“Are you going to eat me?”

_ In a sense, _ Hannibal thinks.

Will cocks her head to the side, pondering.

“You’re not that kind of monster though, are you.”

Hannibal kneels down next to her, and gently lifts her onto the bed so that her legs dangle off the edge.

“What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Will contemplates this while staring right past Hannibal’s shoulder, like she’s taking in the shape of her, her outline, but not wanting to see that which fills it.

“You don’t come from the closet, or under the bed. You don’t come from dreams, either.”

The corners of Hannibal’s eyes wrinkle a little bit, in a smile.

“You’re an adult,” Will concludes. “The kind of monster that’s very particular about their french toast.”

Hannibal hums noncommittally, amused.

“I’m particular about other things, too,” Hannibal says. “Adult things.”

“Kid things and adult things are the same. They all think adult things are better just because kids aren’t allowed them, but adults aren’t allowed kid things, either.”

_ And even some kids aren’t allowed even kid things. You stopped being a child long before you should’ve, isn’t that right, Will Graham? _

“But you’re curious, aren’t you? About adult things,” Hannibal says instead. “Show me what you were doing, Will. Show me what you were doing the moment your father died.”

_ Show me what you were doing while I sucked the life out of your daddy, and you were lying awake in your room, listening. _

Will shifts, playing with her fingers.

“Here?”

Hannibal stands then, and gets on the bed. She pats the space between her legs, and Will crawls over, hesitant, before turning and leaning back against Hannibal. She’s small, entire form encompassed by Hannibal’s. If Hannibal leans forward and bends a little, she can rest her chin on top of Will’s curly head, a curtain of her own straight hair falling forward to shield them both and tingeing the air with a waft of her enticing demon scent. Will is hugging her knees close to her chest, curled up in a ball. Hannibal trails her fingers from Will’s toes up to her thin, bony ankles, her shins, to her round knees.

“Show me,” she whispers, and waits, patiently, for Will’s breathing to subside. Will unfurls, just a little, a turtle peeking its head out of its shell.

Then she wiggles out of her panties. Pauses. Uncertain.

Hannibal coaxes her legs open until they’re wrapped around Hannibal’s thighs, spread wide. The nightgown is flipped up at the edges, exposing Will completely to the night air.

“Show me,” she says again, and Will flushes. “Kid things and adult things are just the same, remember? It’s all right, Will. You are mine now. I’ll take care of you.”

Will squeezes her eyes shut, but her hands are creeping down from her stomach, down to her thighs.

“I have nowhere else to go,” she whispers to herself. A reminder.

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” Hannibal murmurs, “you’ll have everything you could ever want, here. Just do this one thing for me. You can do that, can’t you?  _ Show me.” _

Will’s hands tremble as her finger brushes over her clit. Her hips raise a little, twitching at the touch. Hannibal massages her thighs lightly, big palms brushing over the milky-soft skin on the inside.

“That’s it,” she coos.

Will begins to grow more confident, two fingers rubbing circles around her clit, not quite touching it. Likely too sensitive for direct contact, Hannibal assumes.

Will licks her fingers, pink tongue wrapping around little digits, rosy, soft mouth parting and glistening with saliva. Hannibal can smell it. There’s a soft sucking sound as Will shoves her wet finger into her cunt. She’s red now, sweating, legs twitching from where they’re wrapped around Hannibal’s thighs. Hannibal shifts them wider, forcing her to cant her hips up.

Will bites her lips, muffling her sounds. Used to being quiet. But she instinctively leans backwards, burrowing into Hannibal’s heat, twisting a little so that her head rests on Hannibal’s shoulder and she can nose at Hannibal’s neck. Seeking out the pheromones that Hannibal naturally gives off.

Hannibal rubs circles into her thighs, shushing Will gently. She can sense the energy that Will gives off growing, peaking. She can taste it on her tongue. Light, delicate, just a bit sweet. Something with a slippery mouthfeel, something that lingers in the back of the throat.

She’s delicious.

Will whimpers, the finger shoved into her cunt rubbing circles along her front wall, the heel of her palm pressed against her clit.

“Just like that,” Hannibal says.

Lovely little thing.

When Will begins to pant and gasp against her neck, chest heaving and legs jerking upwards, Hannibal lifts her and settles her on her right thigh. She weaves a hand through Will’s locks, gripping them lightly while the other one runs down Will’s back, petting her soothingly. Will straddles Hannibal’s leg and rocks against it, grinding down and back clumsily, simply following what her little body is telling her to do.

“Let it out,” Hannibal says, and Will moans, quietly. Her breath hitches, chest stuttering, and then she’s gripping Hannibal’s shoulders with a gasp and Hannibal tilts her head back and kisses her.

Will whimpers against her mouth, body going taut, back snapping into a curve while her legs instinctively clamp together around Hannibal’s thigh. Hannibal breathes in, deepening the kiss, and some of that energy, that soft baby glow within Will transfers over.

It’s even better than Hannibal had imagined. Will’s taste floods her tongue, reinvigorates her. Hannibal shakes a little, hand fisting tightly in Will’s curls, enough to elicit another whimper.

Lovely. Lovely, lovely little thing.

Hannibal pulls back at last, and Will wobbles, wavering from where she’s perched just above Hannibal’s knee, eyes blinking slowly in sudden exhaustion. Already, her facial features look sharper, longer. Her hair has grown—where before her curls ended just below the ear, now they brush her shoulders. Her limbs have grown longer too, the nightgown’s hem just a tad too high. She has aged, and Hannibal has fed.

“Sleep now, little one,” Hannibal whispers. Will is already drooping, the added years on her, the unexpected growth spurt tiring her out. She mumbles something against Hannibal’s shoulder, and Hannibal wraps her arms lightly around her prize, before shifting to lie them both down.

“How did I do?” Will asks, voice soft and slurred.

“Perfectly. You were perfect, Will.”

* * *

Will is a well-mannered child. Or perhaps, just an observant one.

Hannibal doesn’t need to eat human food, but it’s a pastime she enjoys—and to enjoy it, to truly savor it, one has to have respect for the food. Hannibal sits with her back straight, her elbows tucked in. She cuts her food into small pieces, holds each morsel in her mouth carefully as she chews. It’s an entire production, from the angle of her wrists to the delicate clink of cutlery on chinaware.

Will’s toes brush the ground now, her legs lengthier than they were the night before. She can’t seem to stop her feet from kicking a little, the kind of unconscious fidgeting that children are wont to have due to an excess of energy. But besides that she’s mostly quiet, her posture and handling of the food similar to Hannibal’s. Every now and then her eyes flicker up from her plate to the space around Hannibal, gathering impressions from the air, before making a small adjustment. The number of times she chews each bite. How far she leans over her plate. When to stop and dab her mouth.

They stare at each other across the table, over their respective plates, each assessing the other.

“Make sure you finish,” Hannibal says. “You need to eat in order to grow.”

_ And you have a lot of growing to do,  _ she thinks.

She fusses a bit over Will’s portions, knowing that Will will need more food than she can actually pack away to sustain the accelerated growth spurt she’ll be undergoing whilst under Hannibal’s care.

“Would you like some more?” She hedges.

Will shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

Hannibal suppresses a sigh, and Will ducks her head, turning away from the soft disapproval as though stung.

“It’s all right. Perhaps another snack, before bed.”

Will makes a small face, but nods.

Hannibal is at a loss. She doesn’t usually spend this much time around little people—most of her time is spent on the hunt, entertaining others of her kind, and engaging in activities of a carnal nature. Will doesn’t seem to be a very difficult child, but Hannibal still resents the discomfiting feeling of inadequacy she feels in her presence. What do human children  _ do?  _ She’s all but forgotten. It has been many, many years since she had been a child, and most of her memories of that time are of snow and winter, burning cold and blue fingers. Memories of a time before that flicker. They leak through the holes of her mind palace, thin slips of sunlit gold, delicate as the warmth of someone’s dying breath. Happiness that she no longer cares to remember.

In time, perhaps that's how Will would remember her time before Hannibal. Immaterial and dream-like, with the taste of impossible fairytales.

Will watches Hannibal’s stony face, measuring the awkward frustration underneath, before holding out an olive branch.

“Tell me a story,” Will says.

Hannibal considers this for a moment.

A story.

This, she can do.

* * *

There once was a little girl.

She was a very beautiful child. Her laughter delighted all who heard it, her smiles wiped miseries away. She brought joy and light along with her wherever she went. She was a very—

* * *

“She was a very well-loved child, but beauty and joy comes with a price, doesn’t it?”

Hannibal doesn't react to the interruption, though it irks her a little.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s a fairytale. All fairytales are about horrible things happening to beautiful little girls.”

“But beauty can be wielded, too. Why do you think all those little girls are saved?”

Will ponders this for a moment, before she lands upon an answer.

“Because they pleaded and cried, and looked pretty enough while doing it.”

Hannibal smiles, and continues the story.

* * *

—She was a very well-loved child. But beauty and joy come with a price. That’s why her mama and papa always told her to beware: beware of men, beware of faeries, beware of things that are too good to be true.

But the little girl did not listen. She tried, but she didn’t understand. She was kind to everyone and everything she met, and because she was kind she did not understand unkindness. She did not understand that there are evil things in the world that would seek to do her harm.

* * *

“Because she’s beautiful?”

“Yes. Because she’s beautiful, and beauty attracts dangerous things.”

* * *

—And thus, when one day she heard enchanting music coming from within the woods, she followed it. Trailing after the sound of the haunting, otherworldly melody, she meandered through the trees, hopped over the brook, and soon was lost, deep in the forest with no way out. Finally, she stumbled upon a clearing. Near the edge was a circle of toadstools.

Now, the little girl’s mama and papa had taught her about fairy rings.

“Never step inside a fairy ring,” they’d told her, “lest they never let you leave.”

But inside the ring lay a great, magnificent stag. It was hurt. Blood shimmered along its shiny black coat, its chest rising and falling as it took great, shuddering breaths of pain.

The little girl, without thinking, stepped inside the ring, her heart going out to the poor creature. As she crossed over the threshold, before her very eyes, the stag transformed into a faerie.

“Help me,” cried the faerie.

The faerie was about the same size as the little girl, and had shimmery, iridescent skin. From its curly head grew two magnificent stag horns. It had black claws and yellow eyes. 

It, much like the little girl, was very, very beautiful.

* * *

Will squirms from her place on Hannibal's lap.

“And beauty attracts d-dangerous things.”

“Yes. And sometimes, it hides dangerous things, as well.”

* * *

The little girl knelt down next to the faerie, who was bleeding from a horrible slash in its side.

At the sight of the creature’s suffering, the little girl’s eyes filled with tears. She knelt over it and wept for its pain, wept in sadness for wretchedness that was not her own.

“Pretty girl,” the faerie’s voice was soft and lilting, like a water tripping over river pebbles or dragonflies skimming the surface of a pond. “Thank you.”

The little girl wiped her tears away and looked up, to find that the faerie’s wounds were beginning to heal.

“Your tears have saved my life,” the faerie said, “and in thanks, I shall now make you my queen.”

* * *

“The little girl doesn’t want to go back home to her mama and papa, does she. She went in knowing this would happen. She was always treated like a princess, but—” Will pauses. Licks her lips. “But what she really wanted was to be queen.”

“Perhaps,” says Hannibal. “Or perhaps the faerie’s enchantment took before she even knew what was happening.”

“Faeries are very mischievous and clever,” says Will, “but so are little girls.”

* * *

The girl was given a crown made of flowers of the most bright, alluring red she’d ever seen. When she placed it upon her head, its leaves and stems curled around her ears and down into her hair, twining together with her curly locks.

She looked around, and saw that everyone was dancing. Faeries of all shapes and colors and sizes, monsters and elves and trolls and goblins.

“Everyone looks so happy,” she said.

“That is because I have finally taken a queen,” the Ruler of the Faeries told her. “Come, dance with me.”

So the girl danced. She danced until her cheeks were glowing, until her shoes fell off her feet, until her bright laughter tinkled throughout the woods and enthralled all who heard it. Unheeding of what her mama and papa had told her, she ate and she drank, partaking in faerie victuals. She never felt hungry, but she never felt full. Everything she could ever want was presented to her, and she thanked all who served her graciously, the way a proper queen should.

Finally, the troupe of dancing faeries came across a hill, on top of which a flat stone lay.

“Do you enjoy being queen?” the Ruler of the Faeries asked her. “Will you stay with us forever?”

“Yes,” the little girl said.

“Then you must do one more thing,” said the Ruler of the Faeries.

* * *

“She has to give them her heart, doesn’t—” Will stutters and gasps,”—doesn’t she.”

* * *

“What is it?” the little girl asked.

“You must give us your heart. Otherwise, it will always try to lead you away from us, back to the realm of the humans.”

“But I don’t want to go back,” the little girl said. “I want to stay here forever.”

“Then give us your heart,” said the Ruler of the Faeries.

“Yes, give us your heart!” cried the crowd. “Give us your heart!”

* * *

Hannibal curls her finger, and Will whines in response. She is spread bare upon Hannibal’s bed again, shirt flipped up to expose a smooth chest and small, dusky nipples.

“Isn’t it nice that the little girl will get what she wants?”

“No one gets to choose what they want,” Will says, and squeezes her eyes shut as her thighs shudder, pressing against Hannibal’s hands as they try to close.

* * *

The little girl laid herself down upon the stone altar, and the Ruler of the Faeries sharpened its claws.

It smiled its beautiful smile down at her, and reassured her, “This won’t hurt at all.”

* * *

“Ah!” cried Will, as Hannibal curled her tongue around her sensitive clit. “Ha—Hannibal!”

Hannibal hums, drinking in Will’s essence. She pets along Will’s smooth skin, a fresh canvas for her to leave her mark upon, bold and clear. Beneath her hand, the skin stretches and swells, Will’s hip bones beginning to widen as Hannibal sucks her youth in from between her teeth.

Red begins to spill from Will’s core, sacrificial. Will crosses her ankles behind Hannibal’s head and ruts up into Hannibal’s face. Hannibal hungrily licks it up, savoring the taste of Will’s first menstruation, slurping messily as the crimson fluid smears around her mouth.

“Delicious,” she breathes, and Will moans. She is pliant beneath Hannibal, hands curled loosely by her head. When she comes it’s with a choked off whimper as Hannibal mercilessly swipes circles around her clit with her tongue.

“That’s a good girl,” Hannibal says. “That’s a good girl.”

Will’s ribs stand out in stark relief as she breathes heavily, eyes sleep-soft and half-lidded. Hannibal eyes her skinny form critically, frowning a bit. She’ll need to make sure to force Will to eat even more, if they are to continue at this rate.

“They were lonely, weren’t they,” Will says. “The faerie ruler. They were lonely, and they knew that the little girl wouldn’t be able to say no.”

“It is a happy story,” Hannibal agrees. “Everyone got what they wanted.”

“The little girl gave away her heart, so now she’s happy,” Will continues. “All the fear that her mama and papa put in her, about guarding herself closely, and being suspicious of everyone—she doesn’t have to worry anymore. Because her heart has already been taken.”

“And isn’t that nice?” Hannibal asks.

Will is silent for a moment.

“Hold me,” she demands, and Hannibal complies, curling protectively around her, her hellfire-warmed skin emanating heat like a hearth.

“It is,” Will says. “It  _ is _ nice. I like that story.”

Will turns and presses a messy kiss to the corner of Hannibal’s mouth, and Hannibal freezes in surprise.

“Don’t worry, Hannibal. I want to stay forever, too.”

* * *

“Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will?”

“Where are you from?”

Hannibal continues to soap up Will’s back, lowering the shower head so that a cascade of water flattens Will’s hair down into the bathwater. The bathroom mirrors are steamy, and the water is just hot enough to bring a flush to Will’s skin where it’s submerged. The bath scent is a decadent magnolia, and to Hannibal, it is mixed in with Will’s natural scent of wildflowers and milk.

“I am from here.”

“Where’s here?”

“We are in a realm adjacent to the one you are from,” Hannibal says. “Here is where the veil between dreams, nightmares, heaven and hell, and the human realm, is thin. That is how I was able to slip into your home so easily, when I came and got you.”

“Where are all your friends?”

“Where are all yours?”

Will pouts.

“Were you all alone before you came and got me?”

_ Were you always alone, like I was? _

“Yes.”

Will pushes her wet hair from her face, bright eyes analyzing Hannibal’s. She leans forward so that their chests touch, the water sloshing between them, and tucks her chin over Hannibal’s shoulder. It is almost like an embrace, except that Will’s hands remain tucked in between them, protectively wrapped around her own body.

“I think you’re lying. But it’s okay, you’re an adult. Adults always lie.”

“Why do you think I’m lying?”

“Because if you were always alone, you wouldn’t be so lonely. Not you. You miss someone, and that’s why you’re lonely.”

Hannibal massages conditioner into Will’s hair, combing her fingers through it as it smooths out and detangles, slick and slippery.

Then she says, “I had a little sister.”

Hannibal feels the brush of Will’s eyelashes against her neck as Will blinks. For some reason, Hannibal’s heart flutters with trepidation. She cares about what Will will think and react upon gaining this information.

“What was it like? Not being alone?”

Hannibal tries. She really does. She tries to think back to those flickering memories, that time of being happy and alive and afraid because she had something to lose.

Hannibal thinks she’s supposed to say, “It’s the most wonderful thing in the world,” or perhaps, “You’ll learn yourself one day.”

But instead, she says, “Her name was Mischa. And after she died, I ate her.”

Will is silent, but Hannibal can smell her tears, acrid and sharp. Tears shed for Hannibal’s hurt, tears like a magical healing spell that will never, ever work.

“You miss her,” Will says. “You miss her so much.”

Hannibal does, but she says nothing. That is an old ache, one she’s learned to live with. It is so ingrained in her that she isn’t sure who she’d be without it.

Perhaps that is why it’s worth crying over.

“Shh, it’s all right,” Hannibal says.

“But it’s not,” Will says. “It’ll never be all right, and it has never been all right. You’re so sad, Hannibal. Why won’t you let yourself be sad?”

Why, indeed?

“There are many different ways to be sad. I decided that I couldn't be sad, not forever.”

Hannibal’s sadness is powerful. It is resplendent, it is beauty in pain. Transformative. It reclaims the loss, and marks it holy.

Hannibal carefully washes Will’s hair clean, then places a kiss upon her forehead, wiping her tears away.

“Time for bed, now,” she says, and unplugs the drain. Will perks up.

“Will we be playing today, too?”

Hannibal blinks.

“Playing? You want to?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal pretends to think about it.

“You’ll have to finish your milk first.”

Will nods from under the towel that is being wrapped around her hair.

“Okay,” she says. “Can it be chocolate?”

“No. I don’t have chocolate milk.”

“…Okay.”

* * *

The third time Hannibal spreads Will out upon her bed, Will has not quite yet begun to grow into the gangly limbs of a teenager, but it is a close thing. She is scrawny, and still so small, and infinitely precious with her soft, bird-fine features and wide eyes and shiny, spit-slick lips. There is a small, fine smattering of hair at the juncture of her legs now.

Will tugs at Hannibal’s hair, fingers mussing up the straight, orderly lines, and when Hannibal looks up she can see how pleased Will is to see her there, beneath her, between her legs. Like a child’s glee when they don’t know that you’ve let them win, except Hannibal didn’t know that she was letting Will win anything at all.

“This is my favorite game,” Will says, and it’s almost flirtatious. Hannibal can almost believe she’s as old as she looks—except that she doesn’t quite look that old yet, either.

Will tugs Hannibal up by her hair until they’re kissing. Will’s getting better at this, too, and Hannibal hums in pleasure. A fast learner. Will’s taste, her energy, has matured some, like fine wine, and the flavors burst across Hannibal’s tongue and tingle all the way down to her core, where she absorbs it.

Will pulls Hannibal closer and turns them so that she’s straddling Hannibal’s thigh, like the first time. She grinds down, skin still warm and smelling of magnolia from the bath, still baby-soft and decadent. Hannibal lets Will move her around as she likes, and their open mouths brush as Will humps Hannibal’s thigh, rubbing clumsy circles with her hips. Her hands creep up and brush across Hannibal’s breasts, squeezing and poking artlessly and curiously until Hannibal reaches out to brush her thumbs along Will’s nipples and Will copies her.

“Can I do you?” Will asks, and Hannibal hesitates.

“Not today, love.”

Will doesn’t have time to frown before Hannibal is flipping her onto her back and hovering over her.

Hannibal goes down on her, licking a large stripe up her cunt before moving back down to focus on her hole. Will is tight, the folds of her flesh curled up snug even as she twitches under Hannibal’s mouth. Her hands tug insistently at Hannibal’s hair and she whines, wiggling and writhing until Hannibal pins down her thighs with her hands. Hannibal drags her nose up the V crease of Will’s pelvis and thigh, simply breathing in the scent of Will’s arousal. Then she’s squeezing a finger into Will’s cunt and listening to Will’s gasps as she laps at her clit, tasting salt and skin and siphoning out that stained-glass, purple-sweet energy only Will can provide her. She holds the taste of Will in her mouth before letting it slip into the rest of her, and for a moment she loses control and she shivers, tail sprouting from her tailbone and whipping back and forth in the air in delight.

Will is shaking beneath her, sweaty and red and glassy-eyed, blood blooming underneath her skin as she kicks her feet helplessly. Hannibal takes pity on her and begins to twist her wrist, finally squeezing in a second finger and, with much difficulty, spreading them so she can lick in between. Will’s thighs are clamping around Hannibal’s head now, trembling and jerking sporadically. She squeaks a little and continues to make noise above Hannibal, calling out her name in her caramel voice, and it, all of it, is a feast for Hannibal. Already, she’s grown older again, small breasts beginning to swell from her chest. Hannibal wants to touch them, roll those nipples around in her mouth, massage them and savor this version of Will, this part of Will, but Will is letting out a choked yell and spurting across Hannibal’s face. The energy that Will gives off in that instant is so strong Hannibal has to scramble to catch it all, her mouth opening wide and sucking at Will’s cunt, wet tongue pressing against her as she rides it out, sobbing.

When Hannibal finally comes up for air, Will has tear-tracks along her cheeks and her hair is a messy tangle beneath her head from all of her thrashing around. Hannibal finds that her heart pounds at the sight, a reaction so strange and  _ human _ that she wonders for a moment if it wasn’t Will but her that’s undergone a transformation. Perhaps in a way she has.

Will holds out her arms and Hannibal obliges, hugging her gently and cradling her to her chest.

“I love you,” Will says, and it’s said with such simple honesty that Hannibal has to marvel at it—the blessing and curse of human children.

Will is nestled against Hannibal, hands curled between them as she hunches closer. She’s already a bit too large to really fit the way she did only a short while ago, body instinctively trying to shrink down to the shape it last remembered itself being.

Hannibal hums a quiet melody under her breath, feeling strangely sentimental. Together, they fall asleep.

* * *

Will is a sweaty, shivery mess. Hannibal can practically hear her bones knocking together, teeth chattering like rubberneckers before tragedy. Hannibal fears she’ll bite her tongue off, her trembling is so violent. Her breath is sucked in in starts and stops, desperate, choking sobs that make her convulse upon the bed. Her eyes are closed, and Hannibal can see the way they flit back and forth as though searching for danger in the darkness under the diaphanous skin of her eyelids.

And isn’t it strange how fear and arousal and excitement can all look the same?

This is what Hannibal believes humans call a “nightmare”. Though why humans seem to always find ways to be afraid of themselves, of their subconscious and the horrors of their own minds, Hannibal doesn’t know. Her kind revels in it, embraces and delights in the macabre innards that make up the mechanics of their souls. To embrace what you fear is to know yourself intimately. Why are humans so afraid of what they’ll find if they look inward? Whatever they’ll find there has been there all along, as it always will be. Trying to deny it won’t do them any good.

Hannibal wonders what grotesque marvels are swimming in Will’s mind right now, what beauty is being born deep in the recesses of her fears and forbidden delights. She wonders if she features somewhere in there, if she’s made some kind of impression on Will past what she’s done with her body. Creatures like Hannibal are proof of the union between mind and flesh—a union that people like to deny and separate in an attempt to elevate reason from carnality, rationality from the corporeal physicality that comes with occupying space with one’s beating, breathing, moving body. Hannibal, on the other hand, is nightmares and fears expressing itself as pleasure and flesh. Hannibal is the antithesis of reason, the embodiment of raw emotion. Hannibal is the opposite of safety.

And yet, Will clings to her as though she’s the last thing standing between her and the terrific pull of the abyss. As though she weren’t already aware that Hannibal is the entity inside, staring right back.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, shaking Will lightly. “Will.”

Will jerks awake with a harsh hiccup, a silent scream no doubt locked in her throat. Her fear is palpable, almost sentient in the way it wraps around her lovingly. The scent of it hangs in the air, tangy and fever-sweet. Will shivers, hugging herself before reaching for Hannibal again, burying her face in Hannibal’s chest.

Hannibal feels like her movements are being transposed on top of someone else’s memory as she strokes Will’s hair, holding her close and rocking them both back and forth. She is doing things she doesn’t know how to do—she is comforting Will, soothing. A pale imitation of what Will really needs, she's sure. She’s whispering silly nonsense in Will’s ear, things like “it’s all right” and “you’re safe” when obviously, she is not. She’s with Hannibal.

She’ll never be safe, never again. Not unless Hannibal lets her go.

“There was a man,” Will says. “There was a man, and I kept walking towards him even though I didn’t want to. He was beckoning me forward, and I couldn’t stop. But I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to, Hannibal.”

Will sniffles, her tears wetting Hannibal’s skin. They both sleep naked, skin on skin, and Hannibal can feel the shape of her the way a beaker knows the shape of water. Right now Will feels cold, fingers like stone, skin clammy and sticky.

_ She’ll need another bath later, _ Hannibal thinks to herself.  _ And more food. _

“I couldn’t see his face, but I knew. I knew he wanted me to leave. He wanted me to leave, and leave you all alone again.”

Hannibal’s stomach flips at that, and suddenly she feels sick. Unnatural. Her arms have gone rigid around Will. Two instincts war inside her—that which is present, and that which is assumed.

She isn’t supposed to be feeling like this. She isn’t supposed to be feeling any particular way around Will. She’s a manipulator of human sensation, of the pump of their blood, the nerves firing under their skin, the dilation of their pupils. That is all under her command, everything she’s built to be attuned to.

It’s something she understands innately, in the way that a bird understands the shape of terrain, the rotation of the earth. As in, she flies above. She does not turn  _ with _ it. She is in the business of denying gravity that hold over her. She understands the pull of strings because she watches the puppet dance, not because she feels the jerk on her limbs.

She understands humans because she needs to know her prey. But understanding isn’t _ empathy. _

And yet, she dances. Will’s fear is twirling them in an intricate pas de deux, and she can’t stop—the strings won’t let her. Will has touched her, moved her, and Hannibal is getting motion sickness from it.

This isn’t supposed to happen.

“And then I ate him.”

Hannibal freezes, liquid nitrogen shooting through her veins.

“I opened my mouth and grew big and dark. I could feel the crunch of him between my teeth, I could taste it, and it felt good and I  _ liked _ it. I liked how it felt, Hannibal. He tasted like nothing I’d ever eaten before.”

Hannibal can imagine it. Will, jaw unhinging and growing. Will, with bloodied teeth. Will, with eyes alight with that same graceless, insolent, childish possessiveness that had made her twist her hands in Hannibal’s hair, cruel and demanding. Will. Lovely, terrible Will.

Hannibal’s heart pounds. Her hands shake. Her breath stutters. She feels so unbearably grounded, dragged down to earth. So unbearably naked and vulnerable, and, and  _ human.  _ How do they live like this? How do they survive this torturous desire, this unconscionable longing?

“He tasted like love. Because it was for you.”

Will wipes at her eyes and sits up straight, before tilting her head back so that her clear eyes can meet Hannibal’s petrified ones.

She’s smiling.

_ She has dimples, _ Hannibal realizes, dazed.

“I love you, Hannibal.”

In the dark of the night, the shadows seem to drip off of Will’s features. Hannibal can almost imagine that it’s blood.

For one wild moment, Hannibal wonders if she should pray. Everything crashes down around her, the blowback effect of destruction ringing in her ears. Hannibal sits, unmoving, as Will snuggles closer, sighing contentedly against her skin.

Hannibal measures the emotions running through her with disbelief. 

_ This isn't supposed to happen, _ she thinks in shock, in denial.

This isn't supposed to happen.

* * *

The fourth time Hannibal spreads Will out on her bed, she has no idea what she’s doing. Because what she’s doing is certainly not feeding. Not in the way it was before.

Will is bigger now. She’s also used to sex, so she’s looser. Hannibal can fit two fingers in right away. Will makes a contented noise in the back of her throat as Hannibal rubs tight circles near the front with one hand, and presses down on her lower abdomen with the other.

Hannibal finds that her own heart is pounding, fast. Her eyes are blown, her cheeks flushed. She can’t bear to be far away from Will, to not be touching her, so she leans forward to roll one small nipple into her mouth, sucking it. She moans around the taste, closing her eyes, and Will sighs beneath her, arching into her touch.

Everything is new, electric. Hannibal is hungry in a way she never has been before. Hungry, greedy, and selfish. She  _ devours _ Will, and Will eagerly reaches back, offering up everything for Hannibal’s ravenous mouth. Hannibal sucks up Will’s vitality, wanting all of her, all of it, everything. Will’s wetness leaks from around her fingers, the slick sounds loud in the quiet room.

From between Hannibal’s legs unfurls a short, thick tentacle, red and pulsating. It drools fluid. Hannibal bites her lip in want, hiking Will’s knee up over her shoulder to bare her further. She removes her hand, shiny with Will’s fluids, and sucks her fingers into her mouth, hungry for a taste.

“This will feel a bit different, darling,” she tells Will, and then her prehensile sex is slipping between the lips of Will’s cunt, running over her clit and down to her opening, already worked open by Hannibal’s fingers. Hannibal pumps her hips forward and Will gasps, clinging to Hannibal’s shoulders, crying out as the bumpy texture slides over all of her sensitive spots.

Every time Hannibal pulls back her sex bunches up, and every time she thrusts forward it stretches out, thickening and lengthening in turns. It curls and wags and explores the shape of Will’s insides with the thoroughness that speaks of a tenderness that Hannibal isn’t supposed to possess.

Hannibal buries her nose under Will’s jaw, mouthing at it, kissing up and down her neck and caressing every part of her that she can reach. Each movement has Will crying out, and when Will cries out Hannibal echoes it.

This isn’t fucking, Hannibal realizes. This isn’t fucking, this isn’t feeding. This isn’t territory that Hannibal has ever traversed before.

This is making love.

“Oh god,” Hannibal blasphemes. Will whines her name again, breathily. She begs for more, more, please Hannibal, Hannibal I love you, Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal.

“Will,” Hannibal answers, and then Will clenches down and Hannibal is shuddering, hunched over Will protectively.

They kiss, and Hannibal feels the moment some of Will’s glow transfers over her, the moment Hannibal steals Will’s youth from her. The moment Will’s precious life slips away. When she looks down again, a young woman lies beneath her. She looks sleepy, tired. And beautiful, so beautiful.

It has barely been a few months since Hannibal had brought Will home with her, and Will has already lost over a decade of her life to Hannibal.

_ What have I done,  _ Hannibal thinks, and despairs.

* * *

Hannibal leaves. Not for long, but enough to prove something to herself. She finds a bar, she finds some middling man of no consequence. She lets him fuck her, and in turn she takes four years off of his life.

He tastes stale and moldy. Nothing like Will’s succulent warmth, nothing like the soft, pulsating glow that slips into Hannibal and settles deep in her belly when part of Will is subsumed into the fabric of her flesh. She has been ruined for anything else, but she can’t. She  _ can’t. _

Can’t even fathom anymore the amount of time she’s already lost to her own greed, to her own nature. The magnitude of the loss she’s already taken.

When she returns home, she’s still hungry, and Will is waiting for her by her bedroom door. She’s wearing Hannibal’s clothes. They’re large on her scrawny frame, collar dipping low between small breasts and flashing white skin, but they still fit too well for Hannibal’s liking—she doesn’t even bother rolling up the sleeves.

Will is livid. She looks to be moments from striking Hannibal and Hannibal almost doesn’t care to find out the reason why because she’d deserve it.

“Who was it? Who did you eat?” Her voice is high and piercing, rising into a shriek.

Hannibal is silent.

Will would have never acted like this when she first came to Hannibal. What happened to that trembling, broken little thing? In the short time Hannibal has had her, Will has somehow grown to be petulant in the way Hannibal thinks she never dared to be before. She looks years and years older than she is, but she is finally getting her childhood back by inheriting Hannibal’s selfishness—her love.

“Where did you go? Why did you leave? Am I not enough for you?”

_ Never, _ Hannibal thinks to herself.  _ If anything, you are too much for me, little one. _

“Will, calm down.”

“No!” Will stomps her foot, hands clenched at her sides. “No! You’re not allowed to! You’re not allowed to go away and find someone else! That’s what  _ I’m _ for!”

“Will,” Hannibal says warningly.

“I won’t let you!  _ I won’t let you!” _

“Is this how you act towards someone who’s—”  _ trying their hardest to learn what it means to love you right? Someone who’s trying their damnedest to save your life?  _ “—been taking such good care of you?”

The lies burn the roof of her mouth like scripture.

“I wouldn’t leave you, so you’re not allowed to leave me!”

“I can do whatever I’d like,” Hannibal retorts.

“I’d  _ die _ before giving you to someone else.”

At this, Hannibal draws herself up, demonic form flickering over the more gentle human face Will is familiar with.

_ Selfish,  _ she thinks.  _ Selfish, cruel. _

How could she say that? When Hannibal is trying so hard to preserve what’s left of her life, trying so hard to atone for—for being what she is? And now Will is saying she’d rather throw it all away for—for  _ what?  _ For a demon that will suck her dry if given the chance?

“I’ll drop you back into the human realm and leave you there,” Hannibal threatens.

“We  _ are _ in the human realm. We never left. Monsters have always come from where the humans are. If you come from hell, then so do I.”

Precocious child. Precocious, precious little thing.

Will grabs Hannibal by the lapels of her blazer and tugs her towards the bed.

“Will—”

“Are you going to say no? You’re not allowed to say no.”

Hannibal’s hands are ironclad around Will’s wrists as she halts them. Her face is stony, blank.

“You have a ways to go if you think you can force me,” Hannibal says.

Will steps closer, until their breaths are mingling. She’s only a few inches shorter than Hannibal now.

“I never got the chance to say no,” she reminds Hannibal. “And you don’t have it in you to deny me anyway.”

Hannibal’s hands weaken enough for Will to tear them away and push them onto the bed.

Is this feeling what humans call guilt? What is guilt to a creature made of sin?

“I love you, Hannibal,” Will says, bitterly and through gritted teeth.

Then she’s attacking Hannibal, raking fingers down Hannibal’s sides and biting into her neck, humping her desperately through their clothes. She reaches down under Hannibal’s skirt and tugs her panties aside to clumsily stick her fingers inside Hannibal’s cunt. Hannibal is still loose from being fucked earlier, and when Will growls Hannibal lets her tentacle come out of hiding and wrap around Will’s wrist.

Will rips open the front of Hannibal’s shirt, kisses her, biting so hard Hannibal tastes blood and can’t tell whose it is.

“Will—” she tries to protest, to calm Will down, to stop this from happening again, and again, and again.

“No,” Will says again as she reaches into her pants to rub at her clit, Hannibal’s wetness still clinging to her fingers.

Hannibal can taste her in the air, on her tongue. She’s bursting with vitality, with sexuality. Prime pickings. Any one of her kind would be salivating right now.

Will is achingly gorgeous above her. Powerful,  _ alive. _ She wants to preserve this moment, encase it in amber, keep it forever. But if she tries to touch it, hold it, it’ll slip away like smoke.

She can’t have this. Not if she wants to keep it.

Will wedges herself between Hannibal’s thighs and ducks her head under Hannibal’s skirt. She swallows Hannibal’s tentacle down and Hannibal jolts at the feeling of her warm throat tightening around the tip.

Where did Will learn to do  _ that? _

(Hannibal knows. Will learned everything from her, after all.)

Will pulls back, running sticky fingers through her curls to hold back her hair. Her mouth is cherry-red and temptingly parted, her eyes half-lidded.

“You like me,” she says. Then, when that doesn’t sound right, “You want me.”

Hannibal can’t deny it. Instead, she closes her eyes, and  _ lets go. _

Her skin blackens and crackles. Her teeth grow. Her tail sprouts, her claws sharpen and lengthen. She grows larger, until her clothes rip off, until she can hardly fit on the queen-sized bed.

“But do you want me?” She asks in her infernal, guttural voice, challenging.

Will straddles Hannibal’s hips, one hand braced against Hannibal’s chest, and grinds down determinedly.

“Yes.”

She crawls up Hannibal’s body, caresses Hannibal’s face gently with her fingertips.

“Yes, Hannibal.”

“But you can’t,” Hannibal says. “We can’t, little one.”

“I don’t care,” Will says, and kisses her again, cutting her tongue and lips upon Hannibal’s fangs.

Unthinkingly, Hannibal curls her tentacle until it’s plunging into her own hole, and she fucks herself like that as Will grabs one of Hannibal’s monstrous hands and shoves it down her pants, ripping it open.

“C’mon, c’mon Hannibal, I want it, I want it.”

“Will, darling, little one,” Hannibal tries again.

“No, shut up, Hannibal.”

Hannibal shuts up.

Hannibal is careful with her claws, but it must still hurt, with the way Will gyrates her hips frantically, bouncing up and down with vigor. Hannibal’s tentacle is still pumping in and out of her own cunt, and her breath is coming out in smoke and steam from her mouth.

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” Will says, and she’s crying now, laying waste to all of Hannibal’s resolve. “I love you and I won’t let you go. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t.”

_ I’m not going anywhere,  _ Hannibal realizes in despair.

Hannibal bucks her hips and Will tumbles forward onto her chest, until Hannibal is cradling her close. Then her tentacle is slipping inside of Will and Will is crying out in bliss. It’s larger in this form, stretches her in a satisfying way.

“Why must you hurt us so?” Hannnibal asks, gently brushing Will’s hair back from her face.

“Because I love you,” Will says, and it sounds like the rise of the tide, the oncoming wave, the ocean swallowing the sun.

Hannibal curls up around Will, a cradle, and  _ feeds. _

Will moans and comes, gasping Hannibal’s name into her mouth.

Hot tears drip down Hannibal’s face, because she loves Will, too.

* * *

* * *

Hannibal cards her fingers through Will’s curls, ruffling them softly. She loves Will’s hair—even as it grows, it remains baby-soft. The scent is that of child-friendly shampoo, sweet and fruity. The kind that comes in curvy bottles with bright bubbles on the front. The kind that doesn’t sting when it gets in your eyes. Will wriggles, trying to adjust herself from where she’s sat on Hannibal’s knee. Her expression is that of pure, unadulterated curiosity and wonder. Her eyes are still wide and blue (so blue). Hannibal has to look up a little to meet her gaze, hands still securing her on the edge of her thigh. Will’s weight is heavy, crushing. Hannibal can feel her leg going numb, underneath it.

Will holds up her hand, palm forward and fingers stretched. Hannibal meets it, and they compare. Will’s hand is still a bit smaller than Hannibal’s, forever a little knobby, unlike Hannibal’s slim, tapered pianist fingers. Will observes the change with a gaze that’s unusually solemn. It makes Hannibal nervous.

“Does this mean I can be like you, now, Hannibal?” Will asks.

Hannibal doesn’t know what that means. Like Hannibal? Is that what Will wants? To be like Hannibal? In what way?

“Yes,” she says, anyway, because she wants Will to smile at her again, that wide-mouthed, eye-crinkling, dimpled smile that stretches her cheeks round, cherub-like.

But Will frowns.

“Does that mean you’ll try to leave me again?”

Her words pierce through Hannibal, ice-cold and sharp. Hannibal can hardly breathe. The beat of her strong, youthful heart stutters, her lungs flatten and fail to expand. She feels old, suddenly. Hobbled.

“No.”

“But you won’t look at me anymore,” Will says. “You don’t play with me anymore. Is it because I’m big now?”

_ Yes, _ Hannibal wants to say.  _ No, _ Hannibal wants to say. If you look closely, you can see just the barest hint of creases on Will’s face, on her forehead, around her mouth. She is aging. She is getting old.

“Why are you sad, Hannibal?” Will’s face scrunches up in a mournful, pained expression that Hannibal had long since forgotten how to make. “Why do you look so sad when you’re with me? Do you not like me anymore?”

“Of course not, darling,” Hannibal reassures, coos. She brushes her hand gently through Will’s hair again, trying to calm her.

Will tumbles forward onto her lap, leaning close, eyes fluttering half-mast. No longer a child perched on Hannibal’s knee, a woman now, wielding everything Hannibal taught her.

“Then kiss me,” she demands.

Hannibal tries to hold back. She really does. But Will presses her lips against hers, and that spark between them lights up, that soft glow, and Hannibal inhales, immured by the touch of Will’s petal-soft lips.

“I love you, Hannibal,” Will says, as she always does. And as always, it’s truer than anything Hannibal could ever express so simply.

Hannibal holds her close, rocks them back and forth, self-soothing.

“And I you, little one. And I you."

**Author's Note:**

> you can come yell at me on twitter [@nise_kazura](https://twitter.com/nise_kazura) if u want lol


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